


meteor shower

by ShowMeAHero



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Arguing, Body Image, Communication, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, F/M, Families of Choice, Fluff, Gender Dysphoria, Happy Ending, Healthy Relationships, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Married Couple, Outing, Panic Attacks, Pregnancy, Trans Male Character, Transphobia, Vomiting, Weight Issues, eating disorder (past)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:13:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23743597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShowMeAHero/pseuds/ShowMeAHero
Summary: In the end, he texts Patty while he's trying to make himself eat breakfast. Eddie's not home for the next three days on a flight schedule based in Nevada, on the opposite coast, so nobody's there to catch him or ask any questions. He's still nervous; all he ends up sending is,hey, what're you up to today?
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Mike Hanlon/Stanley Uris, Patricia Blum Uris/Stanley Uris
Comments: 30
Kudos: 147





	1. 05.22

**Author's Note:**

> starting this because sam makes me feral and encourages my chaos, even when i'm incredibly sick and have to write things paragraph by paragraph on my phone in between naps!!

Richie doesn't _want_ to keep secrets from Eddie, but he thinks it's the right call, in this situation.

See, the thing is, Richie doesn't want Eddie to worry. Eddie's a worrier by nature, so telling him any amount of information will stress him out. He doesn't need that, not right _now._ Only three months ago, they'd had a false positive that made Richie realize just how badly he really wanted this. The five days he thought he was pregnant back in February were the best five days of his _life._ It fucking _sucked_ finding out they weren't gonna have a kid, and it's settled in the back of his mind ever since, an ever-present humming _want,_ a _need._

He doesn't know if he's just imagining things this time. He doesn't _want_ to be imagining things. He's been sick as hell, exhausted, dizzy; he knows it's not _normal,_ he just doesn't know if it's stress or if there's something really there or if maybe he's sick. He doesn't know.

In the end, he texts Patty while he's trying to make himself eat breakfast. Eddie's not home for the next three days on a flight schedule based in Nevada, on the opposite coast, so nobody's there to catch him or ask any questions. He's still nervous; all he ends up sending is, _hey, what're you up to today?_

Patty replies only a couple of minutes later with, **_Not much. You?_ **

_Ariel up for running errands with us?_ Richie texts back. Ariel's both Richie’s six-month-old nephew and the only baby he actively interacts with, making Patty the only person he knows who has actually been pregnant.

 **_He's in a great mood today,_ ** Patty replies. A second text comes through: **_I was going to Target. Sound good?_ **

_perfect,_ Richie sends before running to the sink to cough up bile and dry toast. When he gets back to his phone, it's to see one last text from Patty.

 **_Be there in twenty,_ **she sent, seven minutes ago. Richie groans before dragging himself to the bathroom to brush his teeth.

When he slides into the car next to Patty, he exclaims into the backseat at Ariel in his baby car seat, "Ari, look at _you,_ lifting your head up and everything!"

"Hi, Rich," Patty says. He presses a smacking kiss to her cheek before he buckles himself in beside her in the passenger seat. "Any particular reason you wanted to join us on a Target run?"

"A man can't accompany his lovely friends to the store?" Richie asks. Patty gives him a sidelong look, eyebrow raised. Richie sighs.

"You don't have to talk about it if you're not ready yet." Patty reaches over to pat his knee before she takes his hand and squeezes it. "But I'm here when you are."

They sit in silence for a bit. Richie can hear Ariel babbling to himself, periodically blowing a raspberry at them to make Richie blow one back. He reaches back to him, scritching his belly and making a face at him in his little turned-around mirror.

"I think I'm pregnant," Richie says to Ariel's reflection. He can't see Patty in his peripherals, so he doesn't know what her immediate reaction is. He does, however, hear the silence as it hangs over them in the car.

"Yeah?" Patty asks. She smoothly turns left into the Target parking lot. "What's making you think that?"

Richie's quiet for a moment. "I don't know. I'm probably wrong again."

"You got a false positive," Patty says as she parks the car. "That's not being wrong. That's a bad thing that happened _to_ you. You didn't do something wrong."

"That point aside," Richie says, "I'm really not sure. I've been feeling sick again, but that's not totally out of left field for me with my anxiety."

Patty hums to herself. Ariel makes a face up at her as she pulls him out of his seat and passes him off to Richie. He presses their noses together, scrunching up his face at Ariel until the baby laughs at him.

"Anything else?" Patty asks, once they're in Target. "Anything out of the ordinary?"

"Crazy headaches, I'm dizzy a lot, I'm exhausted all the time for no reason," Richie rattles off.

"And what did Eddie say when you gave him your list of symptoms?" Patty asks.

"Ah, well," Richie mutters, fiddling with Ariel's shirt. "I didn't think I should bother him with this in case it's just a stomach bug or something. There's no point to getting both our hopes up for nothing."

"It's not nothing," Patty says. She's leading him towards the family planning section. Their path is meandering, like Patty's trying to trick him. Like he's a dog who thinks he's going to the park when he's really going to the vet. "Even if you're not pregnant, it's something you're going through. He's your partner. Plus, you know. He's Eddie, too."

"Yeah, I know," Richie says quietly. He laughs once, then admits, "I just don't want to let him down again."

"Oh, Richie," Patty says. Richie waves her off, but she rubs his back anyways. He abruptly feels his mood drop off, plummeting into fear, and he turns his face into her shoulder. Ariel's pressed between the two of them, patting at Richie's cheek.

"What am I gonna do?" Richie asks.

"First, get a test," Patty says, still rubbing his back.

"Or a few," Richie interjects.

"Or a few," Patty amends. "Just to be sure for Dr. K. Second, we'll go back to my place and take the tests. Third, you tell Eddie whatever the tests say. Positive or negative—"

"Oh, no, no, _no,"_ Richie cuts her off. "He's still gone for another three days, Pat. I'm not gonna call him and freak him out, you know how he gets. He'll just be going crazy for no good reason."

"Well, at least one good reason," Patty argues. They give each other jarringly similar sidelong glances before Patty points up and says, "Oh, look where we are."

Richie's about to make a joke back at her before he actually looks down the family planning aisle. On one side, there's pads and tampons and all that stupid shit he hates thinking about and hates dealing with even more; next to them are rows of condoms that Patty points at, grinning, before there's the actual pregnancy tests. There's so fucking many _options._

"What do I get?" Richie asks, overwhelmed. Patty hooks her chin on his shoulder, studying the brands and their names and packaging choices with him.

"Anything you want," she says. She untangled herself from him to take one off its rack, flipping it over to read the back. "This one will say _Pregnant_ or _Not Pregnant._ Comes with two tests."

Richie wheels the cart over and says, "Toss it in."

Patty drops it in before pulling another test off the shelf. She closely examines this one, too. "This will give two vertical lines after three minutes."

"Just— Let's just grab a bunch," Richie says, snatching a couple of tests off a rack so hard he nearly brings the whole thing rattling down. Ariel laughs at the display while Patty hurries to shove everything in place.

"It's like having two children in here with me," she comments. Richie laughs before he realizes he might be having one of those and his brain shuts down again.

They end up with six different types of pregnancy tests, even though Richie makes a _shitload_ of jokes about how she could possibly expect him to piss that much. Ariel just makes happy squeaking sounds the entire time, babbling Richie's ear off and making his heart pound with the stupid fucking _want_ he's trying not to let himself feel.

The thing is, he's happy now. He is, one hundred percent. Eddie's in a good place in his career and he's a pilot, he's doing what he actually wants to be doing with his life, and so is Richie. He's successful and he's supposed to have another tour run coming up and he's guest-hosted SNL before. He and Eddie are married, they own their own home in New York near the other Losers, and they've tossed around the idea of having kids for years.

It wasn't until Richie got the false positive back in February that he realized just how fucking badly he wants a kid. He wants it _so_ bad, wants it with Eddie _so_ bad, and he thought he had it just to get it all ripped away in less than a week. He doesn't want to lose that again. He doesn't, he _can't._

"Hey," Patty says softly as they're in the car back to her house. He exhales slowly; he hadn't even realized he was holding his breath. He forces his shoulders to relax, forces his fists to unclench.

"I'm sorry," he tells her.

"Don't be," she says. "I just want you to know it's going to be okay no matter what, okay?"

He nods, dropping his eyes down to his hands again. The fear stirs up again before draining out of him, along with all the fight that had been left in him. He scrubs at his face with the heels of his hands before exhaling harshly.

"I'm just scared," Richie says, voice breaking on _scared._ He laughs, covering his face with his palms. _"Fuck."_

"It's okay to be scared," Patty tells him. Her hand rubs his thigh over his jeans, squeezing by his knee to make him jump. He laughs again, turning into her. She just wraps her arm around his shoulders and kisses the top of his head. The car comes to a stop, and Patty parks them. "We're back home."

"I'm really scared, Pat," Richie says. The knot in his throat stings as he tries to fight back the tears. Patty rubs his shoulder.

"I'm right here with you," Patty tells him. "And Stan, you know he's got your back. We'll be there with you. And if you call Eddie—"

"Which I won't," Richie says. "Because I can't, because I'm scared of being wrong again. I'm _really_ fucking scared of fucking this up."

"Hey," Patty says. Her voice is hard, firm. Serious. Richie glances up to make eye contact with her, and she holds it with steel in her face, refusing to let go. She squeezes his hands between hers as she tells him, "You haven't fucked anything up. Not a _thing,_ do you understand?" Richie nods; she wipes a tear off his cheek with the backs of their joined hands. "If you're not pregnant, it'll happen another time. If you are, then we'll go from there. But we won't know anything until we do something."

"I know," he says softly. She rubs her thumbs into his palms.

"We have to do something, Rich," she says. "Can't stay stuck in limbo."

Richie nods, staring down at their hands as his stomach turns. He closes his eyes.

"You okay?" she asks. He nods again. "If you're upset—"

"I'm gonna hurl," Richie tells her in a burst before shoving open the passenger side door and vomiting coffee down their driveway. Patty just rubs his back until he can catch his breath.

"Was it something I said?" she asks. He laughs breathlessly, hanging his head down until his forehead presses into the inside door handle.

"Yeah," he tells her. "Your vibes threw me off, they're rancid." He laughs, then gags again, retching and spitting into the driveway.

"I hope my neighbors enjoy the show," Patty comments. Richie just laughs again, leaning back against his seat. "I've got mouthwash inside."

"Sweet-talker," Richie replies. Patty pats him on the back before telling him to watch Ariel while she runs inside to get Stan to help.

When Stan comes out and sees Richie hanging out of his wife's car, puking onto his property, he doesn't break pace, to his credit. Doesn't even falter once as he goes right to Richie and helps him out of the car.

"Make yourself carsick?" Stan asks. It doesn't feel like a real question, so Richie doesn't answer it. He just swallows and exhales, leaning heavily into Stan as a wave of dizziness washes over him.

"Well, Eddie made me carsick," Richie mumbles, closing his eyes and coming to a stop on Stan's front walkway, catching his breath for a moment. "In theory."

"I see," Stan replies. "And should I call Eddie?"

"No," Patty answers for him. She passes Stan the bag from Target filled with their boxes of pregnancy tests. When Stan peeks inside, he blanches. "Not for me, you bozo. For him."

"Ah," Stan says. He lowers Richie down onto his sofa in their living room before dumping out the pregnancy tests on the coffee table. Richie laughs nervously, grabbing one up and flipping it around to examine the front.

"Why does this woman already have a baby when she's reading the test?" Richie asks. He grins, holding the box up so he can point at her. "If she didn't know she was pregnant before now, I don't think this test is gonna do her a whole lotta good, to be honest."

Stan laughs as Patty says, "Alright, let's do this. Stan, get me a glass."

Stan and Richie both pause for a moment. Patty just lifts Ariel from his seat, shushing him when he whimpers at the movement.

"The fuck is the glass for?" Richie ultimately ends up asking. Patty glances back to them both.

"So Richie can pee in that and we can just take out— _What?"_ Patty demands, as Stan gags and Richie dissolves into laughter. "It's better than making you piss a dozen times, Richie! I'm doing this for you!"

"I'm not gonna piss in your glassware, though," Richie says, between gasping breaths. Patty rolls her eyes. "I'll just— I don't know. I'll figure it out once I'm in there."

"Please don't defile my bathroom," Stan requests. He still catches Richie by the arm before he goes down the hallway to the bathroom, hands full of unwrapped pregnancy tests. He asks lowly, "Do you want me to come with you?"

Richie seriously considers the offer before shaking his head. "Nah, I'll— I'll call for you when I'm done, though? And you guys can come down?"

"Sure thing," Stan says. He squeezes Richie's wrist before releasing him.

"And do _not_ text Eddie," Richie says again. He points to Stan, then to Patty. "Do _not."_

"We won't," Patty calls to him. She holds Ariel against her chest with one hand and lifts the other in a salute. "Scouts' honor."

Richie salutes her right back before scampering the rest of the way down the hall to the bathroom. Once he's there, he lines up all the tests along Stan's sink. He exhales, surveying the contents of the bathroom before his eyes land on a paper cup. He hopes Stan'll forgive him if he fucks this up beyond belief.

When he has a line of pregnancy tests slowly ticking down on the bathroom counter, he scrubs his hands in the sink so Stan won't shout at him about the doorknob. It's only then that he pushes the door open.

"Heyo," he calls down the hall. Patty comes first, Ariel on her hip and Stan right behind her. He makes a small face at the counter but ultimately doesn't say anything about it.

"When did you take the first one?" Patty asks. Richie shrugs, sitting on their closed toilet lid to stare down at the first few tests.

"I'm not sure," Richie says, bouncing his leg. Stan comes around Patty to crouch beside him, a hand on his knee.

"No matter what happens, we're here for you," Stan tells him. "And Eddie's wanted to have a kid with you for forever, you know that. It's going to be alright. I know this is scary, but it's all going to be okay, no matter what those tests say. Alright, Rich? I swear to you."

Richie hesitates, then holds up his hand, pinkie out. Stan hooks their pinkies together and smiles; a smile spreads across Richie's face in automatic response to that.

"See?" Stan says. "I promise."

Richie nods, looking down at their joined hands. Stan pushes their foreheads together for a moment before Patty says, "A couple of them are starting to change, Richie."

Richie exhales, closing his eyes for a brief moment before he withdraws from Stan. He looks up at the ceiling and says, "Is it good news or bad news?"

"Depends on which one is which," Patty answers. Richie frowns, then drops his head to look over the line of tests. He picks up the very first one and it has two lines on the display. The second one says _Pregnant;_ the third and fourth ones have little plus signs, the next three all say _Pregnant,_ too, and the last four all have two lines like the first one.

"What if it's a false positive?" Richie asks tearfully.

"Eleven false positives?" Stan asks skeptically. Patty picks up two of the tests without hesitation, grinning as she looks them over.

"We can take more tomorrow," Patty tells him, barely disguising her excitement. Richie finally lets the tears spill down his face as Patty says, "Or next week, whenever you want, just to make sure."

"Fuck," Richie curses. Stan tugs him into a hug, pulling him to his feet right there in his bathroom. Richie laughs, exhausted and exhilarated. "Fuck, _fuck,_ Stan, I'm— I want it to be real, I want it to be real so bad."

"I'm not a doctor," Stan says into his shoulder. Richie laughs, the noise muffled by Stan's throat. "So I can't confirm or deny this for you, but I _can_ tell you I've got eleven different brands of positive pregnancy tests on my bathroom counter. And how long have you been suspicious?"

Richie shrugs. "I don't know. A couple of weeks. I've been too nervous of getting my hopes up, I don't know, and Eddie's been home a lot, but— He's gone for a couple days, and—" Richie's chest squeezes, his eyes burning as he abruptly wants to cry. "And I can't fucking— Tell him _anything,_ because he won't be back for three _days."_

Stan rubs his back, looking to Patty over Richie's shoulder. He can feel Stan's jaw moving as they mouth something to one another. In the end, Stan suggests, "Why don't you stay here tonight?"

"Are you sure?" Richie asks. Stan squeezes him once before releasing him and stepping back.

"Of course," Stan says. "Take the guest room, get some sleep because you look like shit, I'll wake you up later for lunch."

"Don't be too nice to me," Richie warns. He gathers up the pregnancy tests and sticks them right in his pockets, ignoring Stan's nearly-stifled groan as he watches it happen. "It makes me feel like you're going to send me to the farm."

"I'll give you a knuckle sandwich for lunch, how's that?" Stan asks. Richie kisses him on the cheek.

"That's my man," Richie murmurs. Stan rubs his back for another moment before passing him off to Patty to be guided to the guest room. "Thanks, you guys."

"Of course," Patty says.

"Anytime," Stan agrees. "But don't make a habit of this one, obviously."

"You sure?" Richie asks. "I was thinking of maybe turning it into a hobby."

Stan pats him on the back as he leaves the bathroom, saying, "You get some rest, Richie. You're going to need it."

Richie huffs a laugh, leaning back to kiss Stan's temple before tipping into Patty again, letting himself be escorted down the hall and unceremoniously dumped on their guest bed to sleep.


	2. 05.22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie groans, falling back against the pillows. He rubs at one eye for a second. “Is he mad?”
> 
> “No,” Stan tells him. “Just worried.”

Richie wakes up from a hazy dream he doesn’t even half-remember to Stan’s hand on his shoulder, shaking him conscious. He blinks, frowning up at him, and asks, “What the fuck—” before he’s pushing Stan back from the bed and throwing up into the wastepaper basket between the bed and the nightstand. He barely even feels sick until it’s over, when he spits and sits up.

“Sorry,” Richie says.

_ “I’m  _ sorry,” Stan replies. He rubs Richie’s shoulder before he continues with, “I’m sorry to stress you out even more, but Eddie keeps calling me. He’s worried you’re not answering your phone.”

Richie groans, falling back against the pillows. He rubs at one eye for a second. “Is he mad?”

“No,” Stan tells him. “Just worried.”

Richie wants to make a smart-ass comment, but his phone lights up on the guest room’s nightstand with a call from Eddie and cuts him off. He holds up a hand to Stan, and Stan jerks his thumb over his shoulder. Richie shakes his head, but Stan just nods his and darts out of the room, closing the door tightly behind himself. With a sigh, Richie swipes to answer the call.

“Hey, Eds,” Richie greets him.

“Are you okay?” Eddie demands. Richie sighs again, collapsing backwards into the pillows again. “Are you still feeling sick? Did it get worse, is that why you’re at Stan’s? I knew I shouldn’t have—”

“Hey, whoa, slow down,” Richie cuts him off. “I’m a grown man, I can be by myself for a few days. I’m almost thirty.”

“I know you’re almost thirty, I’m just  _ saying,  _ you don’t always take the best care of yourself,” Eddie replies. “So, I worry. Because I love you and I want to make sure you’re okay. Are you okay?”

Richie nods before remembering it’s just a phone call, so he makes himself say, “Yup.” There’s a lump in his throat, though, for no good reason, and it chokes him up. Eddie can tell, he knows he can, because he’s quiet for a beat too long.

“What’s going on?” Eddie asks, a little slower this time. He must be doing his breathing exercises like his therapist is always telling him to do.

“I was sick again this morning so I went over to hang out with Stan and Patty,” Richie tells him. None of it is technically a lie. He just doesn’t want Eddie to freak out, is all. And Eddie deserves to find this out face-to-face, not over the phone. And  _ maybe  _ he’s also fucking  _ terrified  _ and isn’t totally ready to tell Eddie yet. Part of his brain is still screaming  _ you’re wrong you can’t have this you don’t deserve this it isn’t real  _ so he just… He doesn’t want to disappoint Eddie again.

“What does ‘sick’ mean?” Eddie asks. “Sick how?”

“I threw up again, but it’s not a big deal,” Richie tells him.

“It  _ is  _ a big deal if you’re getting sick all the time, Rich,” Eddie replies. “You should call your PCP. You can make an appointment using the app if you don’t want to talk to someone—”

“Eddie,” Richie interrupts him, heart pounding with fear. He’s not ready to say anything, he’s not ready to speak the words out loud and fuck this up permanently, he’s not ready to lose this, he’s not  _ ready. _ “I’m  _ fine,  _ don’t worry about it.”

“You’re not fine if you’re sick!” Eddie exclaims. “Richie, you always do this, you need to take better care of yourself or you’re just going to get sicker. You need to rest and you  _ never  _ rest—”

“I don’t need to rest,” Richie says, pushing himself up to sit on the edge of the guest bed, letting his feet hit the soft rug on the floor beside the bed. Stan and Patty and Eddie are all people who think of things like  _ buying rugs  _ and  _ making dinner  _ and  _ raising kids.  _ Richie just feels like the sort of person who manages to exist just by default, by doing his regular routine. He doesn’t wake up in the morning, get out of bed, and think,  _ The floor needs a rug.  _ He gets out of bed and thinks,  _ Fuck, the floor is cold. _

He accepts things as they are, so sue him. Change is  _ hard. _

“What’re you talking about?” Eddie asks. “Richie, you’re  _ sick.  _ Of  _ course  _ you need to rest. You shouldn’t be working right now, you should call out and use your sick days.”

“No, no, I should save my sick days,” Richie says without thinking. He feels his hands go cold before they go numb. Eddie’s quiet.

“Why?” Eddie asks.

“I didn’t—”

_ “Why?”  _ Eddie repeats. “Are you really sick? I fucking knew it, Richie, goddamnit. You’ve got to stop showering right before you leave the house, you catch colds so much and it was only a matter of time before one of them got worse. I can come back—”

“What? No,” Richie cuts him off incredulously. “You have a job, I don’t need you to come back—”

“You’re not even telling me when you’re sick!” Eddie exclaims.

“Because I’m freaked out!” Richie exclaims right back. They’re both silent for a beat. Richie’s hands are still numb and unfeeling, his heart pounding in his chest. His stomach turns, but there’s nothing left to throw up, so he just closes his eyes and exhales.

“Why are you freaked out?” Eddie asks. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have raised my voice, I’m just nervous and I worry about you because you’re my husband and I love you. I’m sorry. What’s wrong?”

Richie exhales, eyes still closed. “I don’t… I’d rather talk about this when you get home.”

“Rich,” Eddie says, voice wavering a little. The back of Richie’s nose prickles just hearing it, and he breathes out shakily. “If something’s wrong, hon, I’ll come right home.”

“I don’t  _ need  _ you to come home,” Richie repeats. He’s more terrified than he’s ever been in his life, trembling when he stands up from the bed and starts to pace back and forth across the floorboards of the guest room. Fuck, the floor is  _ cold. _

“Richie, I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me about what’s wrong,” Eddie says firmly. “What happened?”

Richie shakes his head, feeling his breath quicken as he fully starts to panic, his heart pounding and his mouth going dry. He hiccups before he says, “Eddie, I’m  _ sorry,  _ I’m so sorry, I can’t— I can’t tell you, I can’t, I’m too scared, I don’t—”

“Richie,” Eddie tries to interrupt him, “Richie,  _ Richie,  _ hey, hey, you can tell me, it’s okay—”

“You don’t  _ understand,”  _ Richie insists. “I’m—  _ Shit,  _ Eddie, I don’t want to— I don’t want to fuck everything up again, I  _ don’t,  _ I want this to be real but I’m so scared and I don’t want to let you down but I want to tell you because I tell you everything and I need you but I don’t want to fuck this up for you—”

“Whoa, whoa, hey,” Eddie cuts him off. Richie sniffles, wiping at his face with the back of his wrist. “Richie, slow down. You’re really freaking me out.”

“That’s exactly what I  _ didn’t  _ want to do,” Richie explodes. There’s a knock on the guest room door, and Richie just whirls and calls out, “I’m  _ fine,  _ I’m just talking to Eddie, it’s  _ fine!” _

“Do you want me to come in?” Stan asks from the other side. Richie tugs at his hair before he nods and goes to open the door for him, just an inch. Stan pushes it the rest of the way in. “Is everything okay?”

“I don’t know how to tell him,” Richie confesses, his phone clutched to his chest. “I don’t want to tell him over the phone, what if I’m wrong and he comes home and I was wrong and—”

“Hey, you’re not wrong, Richie,” Stan interrupts him.

“Stan?” Richie can hear Eddie exclaim through the phone. “Richie, give the phone to Stan.”

Richie does as he’s told, because it seems like the best possible idea when he can’t get his emotions out in so many words, before he sits down heavily on the corner of the guest bed again. Stan stays standing right beside him, rubbing his shoulder.

“Hi, Eddie,” Stan says. He taps the speakerphone icon.

“What’s going on?” Eddie asks through the phone. “Is he okay?”

“He’s okay, he’s healthy and he’s fine,” Stan tells him calmly. Richie sniffles and wipes at his face with the heel of his hand, this time. Stan swats at his hand, wrinkling his nose; Richie just flops backwards on the bed, huffing a small laugh.

“Then what’s going on?” Eddie asks. “What the fuck just happened? Is he having a panic attack?”

Richie shakes his head when Stan looks to him. Stan hesitates, then says, “He’s just not feeling well—”

“Bullshit,” Eddie says.

“Look, it’s really not my place—”

“Is he okay?” Eddie asks. There’s a quiet second before Eddie inhales, clearly about to say something. There’s another beat before he says, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t— Fucking Christ, I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t— Nobody needs to tell me anything, I’m not—”

Richie sits up and calls towards the phone, “Eds, stop beating yourself up, you’re right to be— I just mean, it’s fair to be worried, I don’t mind when you’re worried. I just don’t want you to feel like you have to. I guess.”

All three of them are quiet again. Stan passes the phone back to Richie, but they don’t take it off speaker. Instead, they just wait until they hear Eddie’s intake of breath again.

“I’m sorry,” Eddie says.

“I’m sorry,” Richie echoes immediately. “I’m really sorry, Eddie, I didn’t mean to freak you out. I promise nothing’s wrong, I’m not dying or anything, I’m just kind of fucked up. It’s just a lot.”

“What is?” Eddie asks. “If you can tell me. You don’t have to. But we are partners. But—”

“You’re going to hurt yourself,” Richie tells him. He exhales slowly. "I'm scared. I'm just scared and I want to tell you because you're my best friend but I'm scared because you're my husband."

"Richie, honey, I— I have no idea what that means," Eddie tells him. "But,  _ but,  _ I think I know what you're getting at, so, just— pretend I'm just your best friend Eddie and not your husband Eddie. What would you want to tell me?"

Richie shakes his head, looking down at the phone screen in his hand. Eddie's contact photo — close up, sunglasses on, sunscreen smeared in white streaks across his face, ocean in the background, laughing — is displayed underneath his name,  _ Eds 💕💍🍝.  _ Looking down at him reminds him this is Eddie. It's _ Eddie. _

"I would tell my best friend Eddie that I— I think I'm pregnant," Richie tells him, voice pitching and catching. "But that I'm too— I'm too fucking chickenshit to tell my husband after I ruined everything last time."

Eddie's silent for a long, long while. Richie's eyes burn again before overflowing as he curls around his phone. Stan rubs his back in slow, even circles.

"You didn't ruin everything," Eddie tells him. "First of all. You didn't ruin  _ anything,  _ not anything at all, you dipshit." He laughs roughly, then asks, "When you say you think you're pregnant, what— Why?"

"I've been really sick," Richie tells him. "Really dizzy and faint. I keep getting headaches—"

“Oh,  _ Richie,”  _ Eddie groans. He sounds distraught; Richie’s chest twists with guilt. "You should've told me.”

"I'm sorry," Richie replies, at the same exact time Eddie  _ also  _ says "I'm sorry," followed up with, "That's not fair of me, I know it's hard. But you know you can tell me anything,  _ anything,  _ and I'm here for you."

Richie nods, grip tightening on the phone as he struggles to get his breathing and crying under control. "I know. I'm so sorry, Eddie, I just— After last time, y'know? You deserve better than—"

"I love you more than anything," Eddie cuts him off to tell him.  _ "Anything.  _ I want to protect you and take care of you and I'm going to do that no matter what, if you'll let me. I promise, Richie, okay? You're never alone."

Richie nods jerkily, folding into himself and exhaling shakily, wet with tears, as he takes the phone off speaker. He clutches it to his ear and says, "I took you off speaker so Stan can't hear you being sweet to me."

"I'm always sweet to you," Eddie argues. "How are you feeling right now? Tell me everything you’re feeling.”

“Right now I feel like I’m about to throw up,” Richie tells him. Stan nudges the wastebasket closer to him with the inside of his foot, and Richie huffs a laugh. “Thanks, man.”

“No problem,” Stan says.

“And my heart’s pounding,” Richie says. “But mostly because I’m just terrified and coming down from that. I’m fine.”

Eddie’s quiet for a moment before he asks, “You were terrified of what? Of me, of telling me?”

Richie buries his face in his free hand again.

“Richie?” Eddie asks.

“Yes,” Richie says. “Because I didn’t want to fuck it up. I don’t want to fuck this up. I’m scared that saying it to you means I’m going to ruin everything and I don’t know what I’ll do if—”

“Richie, Rich, hey, hey,” Eddie cuts him off, and Richie takes another deep breath, scrubbing at his eyes. Stan sits beside him on the bed, just a small dip in the mattress as it takes his weight, and starts rubbing his back again, right between his shoulder blades. “It’s alright to be scared, because I’m  _ really  _ fucking scared too, but you— Okay, I’m not gonna tell you you can tell me anything, because you know that. But you can. And regardless, this right here? This isn’t about me. This is about  _ you,  _ okay, and I’m— I’m gonna do whatever I can for you, alright? But you have to tell me things. I can’t do anything if I don’t know what  _ to  _ do, I can’t just force myself on you, because then I’m just gonna fuck—”

“Eds,” Richie interrupts. Eddie comes to a halt, catching his breath. “It’s not your fault that I can’t open up right to you.”

“You’re doing fine,” Eddie tells him softly. Richie exhales shakily. “Hey, I’m right here, bub, okay? Just breathe.”

Richie nods quickly, sniffling and wiping at his face with the heel of his hand. Stan swats at him again, but Richie swats him right back; Stan just stands briefly so he can grab the box of tissues off the dresser for him.

“I’m gonna use some sick days and come home,” Eddie tells him. “And I’ll stay home for the week and we’ll figure it all out. Is that okay? Does that sound alright?”

“Yeah,” Richie answers, his heart clenching. He realizes, abruptly, that he hasn’t actually  _ said it  _ yet, not directly or in so many words, so he shuts his eyes and says, “Eddie?”

“Yeah?” Eddie asks.

“I think I’m pregnant,” he tells him. He laughs tearfully, then looks to Stan when he says, “Eds, I’m pregnant, I think we’re gonna have a baby. I think it’s really real.”

Eddie’s quiet for a moment on the other end before Richie hears him sniffle, too. Quickly, he says, “I’m gonna be home by tonight, okay?”

“Send me your ETA and I’ll come pick you up,” Richie says, heart pounding. Eddie doesn't comment for another minute before he makes a soft noise between a sigh and half a laugh.

"I love you so much," Eddie tells him. "I trust you. I'm excited to see you."

Richie closes his eyes and lets himself be stupid emotional for a second before he says, "I miss you."

"I'm on the first flight home," Eddie promises. "Hang tight and I'll be there before you know it."

"I'll tell Stan he's off babysitting duty," Richie says. Stan pinches his arm, smiling just a little. "Well. Babysitting  _ me,  _ today, anyways."

"Don't work yourself up again," Eddie warns, sharp and firm. "Eat something for lunch with Stan, have you eaten? No, it's not twelve-thirty yet, you haven't— Well, eat something and get some more rest and I'll be home before you know it. Okay?"

"Okay," Richie says.

"And we'll figure it all out," Eddie says. Richie nods. "Okay?"

Right. "Okay."

There's a beat.

"Richie, I love you," Eddie says, so deeply and roughly that Richie sniffles again, the lump coming back to his throat. "That's not going to change. Okay? Ever. I promise you that."

Richie nods. He manages to get out, "I know. I know that."

"Okay," Eddie tells him. "I love you. I'm going to be home tonight."

"I know," Richie laughs, wiping at his face with the handful of tissues Stan presses into his palm. "You said."

"Just making sure you heard me the first twelve times," Eddie replies. Richie can hear the smile in his voice. “Get some rest. Talk to Stan. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“Eddie,  _ go,”  _ Richie tells him. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Eddie says. Richie hangs up the phone and tosses it on the bed, falling backwards after it. He groans when it makes his head throb, pressure pulsing behind his eyes.

“That went pretty well, all things considered,” Stan says. Richie huffs a laugh into his palms. “Do you want something to eat?”

“I don’t know,” Richie tells him. Stan just sighs and hauls him to his feet with two strong hands wrapped around his wrists. Richie goes limp, just to watch Stan flail and topple over right onto him. He’s fully  _ not  _ expecting Stan to scramble off of him so quickly he nearly launches himself onto the floor. “What the fuck was that?”

“I didn’t want to crush your baby,” Stan says. Richie stares up at him, flat on his back, bewildered, just for a beat. Then, he starts laughing;  _ then,  _ he starts laughing hysterically. Stan sits beside him on the bed again and Patty sticks her head in.

“I made you some soup,” Patty tells them. She holds up a bowl and says, “Butternut squash.”

Richie shoves himself up into a seated position and grabs up the wastebasket off the floor just in time to vomit into again.

“Maybe not yet,” Stan says. Patty vanishes from the doorway. Richie spits into the trash, his stomach turning. “Wanna lay down?”

“Yes,” Richie answers, abruptly exhausted. “Please.”

* * *

Richie’s up again in only a couple of hours because he’s starving, a feeling which abruptly abates when he has Patty’s reheated soup and immediately gets sick again. He ends up just picking through the fruits in the bowl on Stan and Patty’s island while he waits for Eddie’s flight to come in, trying to find something that doesn’t make his stomach turn.

“What is this?” Richie asks. He rubs his thumb over the outside of a deep purple fruit he doesn’t think he’s seen before, which doesn’t say much since he remembers the names of, like, the main three fruits they teach you on  _ Sesame Street, _ and that’s it.  _ Eddie’s  _ the one who knows the names of fruits. He thinks of  _ fruit names _ and  _ buying rugs _ and all that.

_ Richie  _ gets a raised eyebrow from Stan and a pitying, “That’s a  _ fig,  _ Richie.”

“Oh,” Richie says. “Like the ancient Egyptians ate?”

“The ancient Greeks,” Stan corrects him.

“The ancient Egyptians ate them, too,” Patty interrupts. They both turn to look at her. She takes the fig from Richie’s hands, twists off the top stem, breaks the fruit in half with her hands, and gives the halves back to Richie. “Try it.” Richie does, and it’s actually fucking good. “I bought them today, they’re not good for very long. You can take ours.”

“Thank you,” Richie says, stealing the rest of the figs from the bowl and pooling them in his shirt with one hand. Stan slides a Tupperware container across the table.

Richie stares at the container before he looks down to the figs. After a beat, he sighs, dropping his head down to hit the counter.

“I’m going to be a horrible father,” Richie says, knot in his throat. “I never think of— of Tupperware containers or buying rugs and eating figs, I just don’t think of it. How the fuck am I gonna take care of a baby? I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, I can’t even take care of  _ myself.” _

“There’s nothing wrong with liking what you like,” Stan comments. “You like strawberries, you eat strawberries.”

“No, I get it,” Patty says. She reaches into Richie’s hands and pulls the figs from his shirt, tipping them into the Tupperware container. He tips his face until his cheek is smushed on the counter so he can look up at her with one eye, his glasses digging into his temple and his nose.

“I’m not good at this,” Richie tells her. His chest twists with the simple fact that he  _ can’t fucking do this. _ “Patty, I can’t take care of a baby. I’m gonna fuck up so bad, I’m gonna fuck them up so  _ bad.” _

“Hey, no, you’re not,” Patty says. “Because you love them. You really do. It’s authentic and it’s real and it means you’re going to do what’s best for them. And you’ll be able to tell, Rich, I promise.” She takes his hands in hers, both of them slightly sticky with fig juice. “I felt the same way before Ari was born. I thought I’d have no idea what to do and I wouldn’t feel any sort of… I don’t know. Instincts towards him, I guess.” She squeezes Richie’s hands and says, “But you do. And you will. You’ll be able to know and tell and you’ll be able to do it. You’re going to be amazing and so much better than you know, I promise. That’s what happened to me.”

“But you’re a good person,” Richie tells her.

“So are you,” she tells him softly. He nods, turning his face back into the island. She wraps her arms around him, tight at his shoulders; he wraps his hands around her wrists and sighs, leaning into her, letting himself slump and relax.

“Do you want me to go get Eddie?” Stan asks, making them both jump. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t want to interrupt, but—”

“No, no, I’ll go,” Richie says. He gets up, wiping at his face. All he does is smear fig juice across his cheeks; groaning, he sticks his face in the basin of their island sink and turns on the water with his elbow. Stan shouts and Patty laughs as he gets blasted full in the face with the water, but it works.

By the time Patty’s dropped him back off at his place and he’s in his own car on his way to the airport, his hair is drying, his hands are clean, and his heart is pounding. He drums on the steering wheel as he creeps through rush-hour traffic. The music on the radio’s drowned out by his blood rushing in his ears.

He’s got Eddie’s staff pass in the car, since they’ve had to share Richie’s T-bird after Eddie’s old Mercury Marauder died. Which,  _ good,  _ in Richie’s opinion, because it makes Eddie look more like a hitman than he usually does. They’ve been debating what sort of car he should get next. For one second, hideously, Richie thinks,  _ maybe a minivan,  _ and laughs to himself.

Because he’s got the staff pass and because the guard in the station outside the staff lot recognizes him, he gets to park back there where there’s plenty of spots. He’s glad it’s May, because it’s comfortably warm enough to lean against the car and just tip his head back, absorbing the sun for the first time all day.

That’s where he is when he hears Eddie call his name from across the parking lot. Face turned up to the sun, eyes closed, arms folded across his chest, leaning against his T-bird. He looks down in time to see Eddie sling his jacket over his shoulder and start running for him. Richie only has the time to take a couple of steps forward before Eddie’s stopping himself from colliding with him, hands planted firmly on Richie’s shoulders.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Eddie tells him. Richie ducks down and buries his face in Eddie’s throat, wrapping his arms around him tightly anyways. For a moment, Eddie doesn’t move, his breath catching and his pulse pounding under Richie’s ear. It’s only a single heartbeat before he’s hugging him back just as tight, turning his face into Richie’s and steadying him when Richie tips a little.

“I’m sorry I freaked you out,” Richie tells him. Eddie shakes his head against him.

“Don’t apologize,” Eddie insists. He pulls back to cup Richie’s face in his hands, pulling him in for a kiss. When he exhales, it’s shaky, running his hands down the column of Richie’s throat and along the line of his shoulders, gripping him at the upper arms. He looks him over, just for a second. When Eddie looks at him, Richie feels really  _ seen,  _ in a way other people don’t look at him. Eddie knows what he’s looking at when he sees it on Richie’s face, knows all his masks and his emotions and his tics and his quirks, just like he likes to think he knows Eddie’s.

“I’m still scared,” Richie confesses. Eddie runs his hands back up to cup his face again. “That it’s going to be like February again, I don’t—”

“There’s no point in just speculating,” Eddie cuts him off firmly to say. He points to the car and says, “We’ll get another test, I’ll drive, and you can book an appointment with your PCP on your phone on the way. Sound good?”

Richie nods, overwhelmingly relieved to have Eddie working together with him. Eddie tugs him down for another kiss, slower this time, deeper; he licks into his mouth, sliding along his tongue before pulling back, leaving Richie’s heart pounding.

“It’s going to be okay,” Eddie tells him, “and I love you, and I’m excited.”

Richie nods, but all he manages to say is, “Me, too,” before tears spill down his face and he laughs, tipping his head up again to wipe at his cheeks.  _ “Fuck.” _

“It’s okay,” Eddie says. He kisses Richie one last time before moving around the car to get in the driver’s seat. “Your hormones are going to be all over the place until the baby’s born and that’s not your fault, so don’t apologize and you don’t need to feel bad, that’s just medical. That’s science, it’s going to happen.”

“Your bedside manner is overwhelming, Dr. K,” Richie comments, buckling himself into the passenger’s seat.

“That’s because I’m not a fucking doctor,” Eddie answers. He tosses his captain’s hat and his jacket in the backseat of the car, rolling up his sleeves to the elbows before he starts the car. Richie’s stupid in love with him. “I’m your fucking husband and I’m just trying to reassure you, Jesus Christ.”

“I love you, too,” Richie says. Eddie looks at him, both hands on the wheel, and smiles. Richie dissolves into tears again.

“What the fuck,” Eddie demands, horrified. Richie shakes his head and wipes at his face with the insides of his wrists.

“I’m just tired and freaked out,” Richie says, “I’m sorry—”

“I  _ told you,”  _ Eddie cuts him off. “You don’t  _ need  _ to be sorry, it’s biological—”

“If I’m really pregnant,” Richie interjects.

“Which I’m starting to think you are,” Eddie says, first as a joke, then again, quieter, “Which… Rich, that’s probably really what this is. Seriously.”

Richie turns that over in his mind. His heart’s still pounding, and he forgot all the other pregnancy tests at Stan and Patty’s place, so he says, “I still want to take another test, though.”

“Okay,” Eddie answers, no hesitation. He points to Richie’s phone in his lap and says, “Make an appointment with your PCP through the portal in the app.”

“Sir, yes, sir,” Richie replies. He’s just happy to be given a task to focus on, so he does it, typing out  _ hey doc, got any appointments in the next couple days (or hours maybe) so you can check if I’m really pregnant this time and need to come off T? thanks, Richie  _ in the little Appointment Request - Reason textbox that pops up. He wonders if maybe he should be more formal, then decides it’s his pregnancy and he can do whatever he wants to cope.

Request sent, Richie hesitates. He fiddles with his phone, unsure of what to do, so he just opens Google and fidgets before typing in  _ best pregnancy test most accurate  _ and hitting  _ search.  _ The top result says  _ 7 Best Pregnancy Tests To Tell You If You’re Gonna Be A Mom  _ and it makes him queasy again, so he locks his phone.

“Hey,” Eddie says. Richie looks up to him, then realizes the car’s parked and they’re sitting in the lot outside CVS. “You okay?”

Richie nods, then stops and shakes his head. Eddie turns the car off and reaches across the center arms of their seats to embrace him again. He cradles the back of Richie’s head in one hand, stroking his hair as Richie takes deep breaths and tries to get himself back under control.

“What happened?” Eddie asks.

“I saw an article that said I’m gonna be a mom,” Richie says, aiming for quick and lighthearted until his voice breaks halfway through  _ gonna.  _ Eddie keeps combing his fingers through his hair, his grip on Richie tightening. He laughs, tipping his head back, saying, “Fucking stupid—”

“Hey, no, it’s not,” Eddie cuts him off. He pulls his head back down, makes eye contact with him. Eddie’s big dark eyes are focused right on him,  _ seeing  _ him,  _ looking  _ at him. “It’s not stupid. It’s not. And if I could— If I could make the perfect little town for you, you know, where you were safe and happy and— and everything was okay, I would do that, Richie. And nobody would— Stupid shit like that wouldn’t—” Eddie exhales roughly, then cups Richie’s face right between his hands. “I love you. You’re going to be a good dad. I’m going to keep you safe.”

“Thanks,” Richie says quietly. Eddie studies his face, frowning slightly. His hands slide down the line of his shoulders again to his upper arms to squeeze, then down to his elbows, slipping down to his wrists. He squeezes them, so Richie looks down to see where they’re tangled up.

“Hey,” Eddie says. Richie looks up at him again, and Eddie’s expression has brightened a little. He’s almost smiling when he says, “You know, there’s something really hot about this.”

Richie’s heart skips a beat as he asks, “Wh— About what? About m—”

“About you,” Eddie cuts him off. “And you being pregnant and you being—” Eddie cuts  _ himself  _ off, turning his hands over in Richie’s. He lifts his chin and catches Richie’s lips in another kiss. When they broke apart again, Eddie takes a deep breath. “Something about it is— I don’t know. It feels like— pride, almost, but—” He laughs, looks away. He’s  _ embarrassed,  _ and Richie’s heart clenches.

“You’re happy with this,” Richie says. Eddie looks back to him, all big eyes and sharp lines. “Like, actually. You’re happy about this.”

Eddie nods, says, “Yeah, Rich, of course I am. I’m really happy about this. But I’m  _ also  _ telling you that I think you’re hot, and that I think you being pregnant with my kid is  _ very  _ hot, and in a  _ very  _ masculine way.”

“Promise?” Richie asks.

“Promise,” Eddie echoes. “I’ve got a gay pride pin on my jacket to prove it.”

“You still wear that?” Richie asks. “Is it still not regulation?”

“Fuck regulation,” Eddie says. Richie strongly suspects that he takes the pin off once he’s in the car and pockets it, but he’s always wearing it on his captain’s uniform jacket when Richie sees him in it. It’s just some handmade pin Richie had gotten at Pride a few years back, but it makes him smile to see it, which is presumably why Eddie does it. Richie loves him just— just so  _ fucking  _ much.

“I love you,” Richie says. It’s only a small fragment of what he feels, but he thinks Eddie knows how much he means it anyways. “Thank you.”

“Thank  _ you,”  _ Eddie replies. He pulls Richie in to press a kiss to his cheek before asking, “Do you want me to go in?”

Richie nods, rubbing at the back of his neck when Eddie lets him go. It’s only a couple of minutes that Eddie’s inside, but it still feels like a lifetime before he’s back in the car with the box and they’re on their way home. Richie fidgets with the box, now, instead of his phone, reading and re-reading the instructions on the back. It’s a green and silver box, thank fuck for Eddie’s existence, with clinical and concise directions and gross little pictures.

“Do you want me to go in?” Eddie asks again, this time outside their bathroom door. Richie fiddles with the stick. For some reason, it feels a lot more menacing than the lineup he’d had at Stan and Patty’s. It’s a lot of weight on one little thing.

“I don’t know,” Richie says. Eddie strokes his hair back from his face.

“I’ll sit outside the door,” Eddie tells him. Richie just nods, leaving the door open just a little bit with a lack of shame that can only come from years and years of being together. He can hear Eddie slump to sit down right outside the door; there are rhythmic taps that Richie recognizes as Eddie’s nails on their hardwood floors.

It’s not easy to take this test after he’s taken all the others, but he manages it and puts it up on the sink counter when he’s done. Eddie comes in without hesitation, picking the test up with the very edges of his nails and setting it down on a wad of tissues as Richie redresses himself.

“How long is it supposed to take?” Richie asks, even though he read the box a hundred times in the car.

“Five minutes,” Eddie tells him. He pulls out his phone to set a timer, setting the device screen-side-up beside the test on the counter. Staring at a fucking five-minute countdown makes Richie’s skin crawl, fidgeting with impatience and anxiety, and he exhales harshly, blowing the breath out in one dramatic gust.

“This  _ blows,”  _ Richie says loudly. Eddie nudges him. “I’m just— Why do they take so fucking long? This is, like, the  _ one  _ thing that should take two seconds. I’ll take slower text messaging if these take two seconds instead.”

Eddie laughs, bouncing up and down on his heels before he laughs  _ again, _ a little too frantic this time, and says, “Fucking shit, Richie, that’s a pregnancy test.”

Richie looks down at him, eyebrow raised. “Y— Yeah, yup, it is, man. I was pretty sure you could hear what I was doing in here from out there.”

“Because I got you pregnant,” Eddie continues. He looks to Richie, cheeks pink. Richie feels a flare of warmth spread down his spine like dripping, warm honey.

He remembers when Eddie used to make him feel like that as a kid. Back when he’d had the biggest, dumbest kid-crush on him, stupid in love and obsessed with everything Eddie, the littlest things from him could give Richie the warm-honey feeling. An ounce of Eddie’s attention kept Richie going for entire days at a time.

This, though? Eddie Francis  _ fucking  _ Kaspbrak, looking him in the eyes with his pretty face and his happiness and his deeply-settled contentment. Eddie Kaspbrak, the boy Richie loved turned into the man Richie is  _ in  _ love with, happier than Richie’s ever seen him at the prospect of the two of them having a baby together, of  _ Richie,  _ specifically, having  _ his  _ baby. And Richie is having  _ Eddie’s  _ baby.  _ Eddie’s. _

“I get it,” Richie says. Eddie kisses him again. “Eddie Kaspbrak wants to have a baby with  _ me.” _

Eddie snorts, then says, “That’s not the golden claim you think it is.”

“All your other husbands will be jealous of  _ me,”  _ Richie declares proudly. Eddie flicks him on the arm and pulls him in for another kiss.

“You’re the only person I want having my babies,” Eddie tells him lowly. Richie swallows and nods, just as Eddie’s timer goes off, beeping and nearly vibrating into the sink before Eddie jerks away to catch it. As he slams it off, Richie picks up the pregnancy test.

“Eddie, what was two lines again?” Richie asks, even though he knows exactly what they were. Eddie grabs Richie’s wrist and pulls his hand in to read the test for himself.

“Two lines means you’re pregnant,” Eddie tells him. There’s no time for Richie to reply to that because Eddie’s tugging him in, kissing him hard with his hands tight at Richie’s hips. They trail up to his waist, digging in before he pulls back, disconnecting gently. He runs his hand down Richie’s arm, taking the pregnancy test from him and setting it down on the counter again with his phone.

“Eds,” Richie says, choked. The fear’s slipping away for now, replaced only with warmth and excitement and the thrill he sees echoed in Eddie’s face.

“Two lines means you’re pregnant,” Eddie repeats. He cradles Richie’s face in his hands and says again, “You’re pregnant, Rich. We’re going to have a baby.  _ Us.” _

“Who would’ve thunk?” Richie asks, caught only moments later in another kiss with Eddie. Eddie Kaspbrak,  _ Kaspbrak,  _ love of his life, father of his baby, his husband, his family.

And he reminds Richie exactly who Eddie Kaspbrak is when he separates them again to ask, “When’s your appointment with your PCP? I think we should just directly call your gynecologist’s office and go from there, cut out the middleman so we can start figuring this out immediately, what do you think?”

“Sounds like a plan,” Richie says, smiling, because Eddie makes the plans. They work well because they play to each other’s strengths and weaknesses and this is  _ Eddie. _

Eddie, grabbing his phone and dialing Richie’s gynecology office’s number from memory. Fucking  _ Eddie. _

“I love you,” Richie says.

Eddie smiles up at him and mouths  _ I love you  _ back before turning away and saying into the phone, “Yeah, hi? This is Eddie Kaspbrak-Tozier, I’ve got Richie Kaspbrak-Tozier here to make an appointment, thanks.” He holds the phone out for Richie to take, and Richie does, heart pounding, chest light, grinning.


	3. 06.17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie tries to focus on the clothes Eddie is showing him, but it's hard to focus when he's scrolling through Tweets that have his name tagged in them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tags updated!! please read, there's some sensitive content in this chapter!!

Richie tries to focus on the clothes Eddie is showing him, but it's hard to focus when he's scrolling through Tweets that have his name tagged in them. They're mostly ragging on him for canceling his last couple shows, which he  _ does  _ feel bad about, but he doesn't think his audiences would've appreciated him establishing a vomit splash-zone in the front four or five rows of seats every night. Some people are speculating  _ why  _ he might be doing it. There's relapse speculation,  _ rehab  _ speculation, rumors that he's sick, that he's a jackass, so on and so forth. A couple people speculate that he's just a lizard person, so he retweets them and them only.

"Richie," Eddie says. From his tone, it's not the first time he's said it, either.

"Mm?" Richie asks, reading a Facebook comment about how he's an asshole and resisting the urge to like it. It makes an ugly knot form in the pit of his stomach reading shit like this, but he pokes the wound anyways. He needs to know if and when they actually figure it out, anyways. Stay on top of things.

"Look up," Eddie says. Richie does, and Eddie takes his phone out of his hands.

_ "Hey,"  _ Richie complains, but he doesn't reach for it back. Eddie skims over the screen and sighs, that worried little furrow coming between his pretty frowning eyes again.

"You shouldn't be reading this stuff, Rich, it makes your blood pressure go up," Eddie says, also not for the first time. He hands Richie his phone back and says, "Don't focus on that shit right now, they don't know anything."

"They're saying I'm getting fat," Richie says. He means for it to be lighthearted, but it comes out low and sad. "Not that it matters. I'm just— I don't know."

"Hey." Eddie puts his hand softly on Richie's cheek, guiding his face down to look at him. "They don't know what they're talking about."

"I'm doing something wrong," Richie says. He doesn't entirely know what he means, but he feels it so bodily that he just  _ says  _ it. "Am I doing something wrong, Eddie?"

"No," Eddie says. Firm, no hesitation. "Don't let them undo your hard work. You've done a lot of work to get here."

Richie nods, looking down at the hanger that's in Eddie's other hand. The whole reason they're here, which is also the whole reason people are commenting on his body again, is that he's started showing almost overnight in an incredibly obvious way. If it was the winter, he'd probably be able to get away with it, but it's in the beginning of the summer and he needs new clothes that fit him better and don't make him miserably overheated.

Except,  _ except,  _ of course there's no fucking male maternity stores. All the clothes they tried in the men's section are for cis dudes with their goddamn cuntless bodies. There's nothing there for a dude whose husband knocked him up. They abandoned it to go to the maternity section, but it's making Richie's skin crawl, so he's mostly focused on his phone instead of the clothes while Eddie sorts through things for him. It's mostly all for cis women, though, and aggressively so, aimed at the supposed fucking  _ femininity  _ of it all. Richie just wants a trans dude paternity section with sweatpants and t-shirts and that's  _ it. _

"I don't know about that, Eds, it's kinda flowy," Richie says. Eddie holds up the shirt, makes a small  _ hmm,  _ then seemingly agrees and puts it back, rooting for something else. "Can we just— I don't know, can we just grab a couple of things and I can change and we can go? I can just get clothes online or something, this place is giving me the heebie-jeebies."

Eddie looks up at him with his giant goddamn eyes, his eyebrows sloped like he's a concerned puppy. He rubs his hand over Richie's arm before leaning up to peck him on the cheek.

"I think I saw a shirt you'd like," Eddie says. Richie raises an eyebrow at him as Eddie drags him backwards to the section of graphic t-shirts in the maternity section. Richie's not sure who these are for — teen moms, maybe, or those who have lowered their standards dramatically in pregnancy — but Eddie pulls out two from a section labeled  _ For Dad. _ The first one says  _ the man behind the baby,  _ which Richie actually smiles at, and the second one just says  _ DILF.  _ They're jokingly made of the same material as the maternity shirts, which is perfect for him, since he actually needs that.

"I love this," Richie says. He looks to Eddie to find him grinning. "I love these, Eds, thanks."

"And, bonus, nobody's gonna believe you," Eddie says, throwing the shirts over his shoulder before beelining across the section. Richie follows him until Eddie, like a bloodhound, finds a rack of maternity sweatpants that miraculously look like Richie's regular sweatpants. He digs through them to find the closest matches in increasing sizes before turning to Richie, arms full of clothes, and tells him, "We're good, let's go."

Richie appreciates him more than ever, and he appreciates him even more when Eddie bodily removes the tags and brings those to the self-checkout so Richie can change out of his ill-fitting old college clothes into his  _ DILF  _ shirt and a nearly-identical pair of new sweatpants. When he looks in the mirror, briefly, he thinks he just looks like a typical dad, and he's not so miserable for a minute.

Eddie comes in with his clothes packed into their reusable bags and asks, "Fit okay?"

"Like a glove," Richie tells him. Eddie comes and hooks the bags over his wrists rather than stoop to putting them on the men's room floor; he wraps his arms around Richie's waist. His fingers interlocking over Richie's belly, bags bumping into his thighs. "And soon it'll be like OJ's glove."

"Baby's growing fast," Eddie agrees. Richie nods, putting his hands over Eddie's. He can feel Eddie press his face into the center of his back for a brief moment before he lifts his head to make eye contact with Richie in the mirror. He rubs his thumb in a slow circle over Richie's belly through his new  _ DILF  _ shirt, bright red and plenty masculine, and Richie feels— pretty okay.

"Let's go home," Richie suggests. Eddie nods, kissing Richie's shoulder blade before withdrawing from him. He tangles their fingers together instead, because Richie's out as gay but not out as trans; people know about Eddie, knows he's married to a man. That's not what he's worried about.

"You sure you're alright?" Eddie asks when they're walking back to their car. Richie shrugs, making a waffling hand motion.

"I'm a little worried about the  _ DILF  _ shirt now that I'm outside in it," Richie answers honestly. Eddie huffs a laugh, kissing him on the corner of his mouth. Richie turns his face down to get a proper kiss, and Eddie gives it, smiling.

"You're like the boy who cried wolf," Eddie says. "You make so many jokes about knocking  _ me  _ up that nobody's going to think the opposite's true."

"I guess," Richie says. He yanks on the passenger door handle, but it doesn't budge. He twists around and shouts, "Let me  _ in,  _ Eds, I'm  _ dying—" _

"Jesus Christ, you drama queen, hold on," Eddie laughs, fumbling the keys. Richie grins at him over the roof of the car; Eddie rolls his eyes, but he's still smiling.

Richie sees more of the same on Twitter on their ride home. People speculating he's drinking again, trying new drugs, falling back into old drugs, sinking back into his eating disorder, just plain going bananas. Richie feels like the subject of an episode of  _ Unsolved Mysteries.  _ A lifelong dream, bittersweet now that it's finally come true.

Eddie glances at him, then reaches out, putting his hand over Richie's phone to block the screen. "Hey, play strip yellow-car with me."

"You're just playing to my interests," Richie accuses.

"Play the player, not the game," Eddie replies. He drops his hand to squeeze Richie's knee before pulling away again. "There's a yellow car. Strip, Tozier."

"Your word is my command," Richie says, untying one of his shoes. Eddie laughs as Richie slips it off and abandons it on the mat under his feet. He's easily distracted on a good day, and his mind is a complete black hole on a bad day; Eddie's able to completely derail him from scanning Twitter for any new mentions of his name. He doesn't even look again until he's home.

He does look again when he's home, though. Eddie steers him directly to the sofa to stretch out and lay down while he puts the other new clothes in the washing machine. Richie scrolls through Twitter and feels his heart freeze in his chest when he sees a fuzzy pap photo of him in the clothes he's currently wearing, walking hand-in-hand with Eddie, making some sort of motion with his hand. The next two pictures are clearer: the first is of Richie twisting around after yanking on the locked door handle, and the second is of him and Eddie gazing stupidly at each other over the roof of the car. They're obviously pictures of him, the other guy is obviously Eddie, and Richie is obviously  _ something,  _ if people's minds don't immediately jump to  _ pregnant,  _ which is exactly what it looks like. But people don't know he's trans.

Looking at this picture, a chill starts dripping down his spine, ice water injected in his veins; he knows people are going to figure him out. It's obvious. It's  _ so  _ fucking obvious.

"Eddie," Richie chokes out.

"Did you say something?" Eddie calls.

"Eddie!" Richie shouts, clutching his phone so tightly his knuckles go white. His hands go numb so quickly it's almost painful, tingling down his wrists. He hears a  _ thump  _ in the other room before Eddie's running into the room.

"What, what's wrong?" Eddie demands. His hands are everywhere, cupping Richie's face, tipping it up to check his eyes, to check his _pulse,_ racing in his throat. Richie jerks away from him to push his phone into his hands. "What the fuck, what is this?"

"What do I do?" Richie asks. He looks up to Eddie, hoping he'll have some sort of answer. Anything.  _ Anything. _ "Eddie, what do I do?"

Eddie's silent as he skims through the photos on Richie's phone. His brow furrows in the moment before realization clears his face and twists him angrier than Richie's seen in a  _ long  _ time. His skin goes red and blotchy  _ fast. _

"Eddie," Richie says again, voice cracking. Eddie looks down to him, then back to the phone. For a moment, he's almost unseeing before he tosses Richie's phone onto the sofa and takes his face between his hands.

"Everything is going to be okay," Eddie tells him. "Don't look at your phone and I'm going to figure everything out. Okay?"

"I'm so fucked," Richie says, feeling his hands start to shake. He laughs, wavering, and pushes away from Eddie to get to his feet. He nearly falls right back over when a wave of vertigo slams into his head and makes him dizzy, but Eddie catches him with a hand firmly planted on his chest. The other hand finds the center of his back, fingertips digging in hard.

"Sit down, Richie," Eddie orders him. Richie laughs again, hysterical this time as he wriggles out of Eddie's grip and  _ nearly  _ makes it all the way to the sink before he's sick, his stomach turning inside-out onto the kitchen floor. He feels Eddie's hands on him again, catching him around the shoulders.

"I'm so sorry," Richie manages to tell him. Eddie shushes him.

"It's going to be okay, but you need to calm down," Eddie tells him. He's talking fast, faster than normal; when Richie glances up at him, his face is all-red now, angry and concerned and tempestuous. "You're going to get yourself worked up and you'll make yourself sick, okay, just— Take a breath and sit down, okay? Please, please sit down, I'm—"

"Okay, yeah," Richie agrees, feeling numb all over now. He lets Eddie lead him over to the sofa again, setting him up with the trash bin and a glass of water before he runs back to the kitchen to clean the floor.

Richie looks back down at his phone. It's on silent, but the screen's lighting up with a call from Martin. With a sigh, he grabs it and greets his manager with a, "What is it, man?"

"I didn't push when you started canceling shows, Richie," Martin says, no hesitation. It's not true, because he pushed a hell of a lot, but Richie's feeling queasy again so he keeps his mouth shut. "I didn't say jackshit when you canceled the appearance on  _ Late Night,  _ I just fixed everything and accepted you probably weren't gonna tell me what was going on but that it probably would end up with you in rehab or something, I don't know."

"I'm not on drugs and I'm not off the wagon," Richie tells him, thumbing at the hem of his shirt. He looks down and can see the new and obvious swell of his belly through the shirt, and it makes his stomach twist with fear now instead of excitement.

"Well, I can fucking tell that  _ now,"  _ Martin snaps at him. Richie sighs, pushing his forehead into the rim of the trash can. "Do you want to explain what I'm looking at, or should I just start making wild guesses? Because I'm leaning towards wild guesses."

"I don't know what you're looking at, what am I, a psychic?" Richie replies.

"I'm looking at pictures of you where it  _ looks  _ like you're pregnant," Martin says, and Richie nearly gags again. "Which I know is biologically impossible, so I'm waiting for an explanation."

Richie's heart is pounding. He laughs dryly, rubbing at his face with his eyes squeezed shut. After a beat, he sets the trash can between his knees and sighs. "It's not actually impossible."

"Explain," Martin says.

"I'm trans," Richie tells him, feeling like his chest is about to explode. "And I am pregnant. Because it's very biologically possible and has been since the dawn of time."

"Rich." Martin stops, then sighs, loudly, significantly. "I can't—"

"Don't—"

"I can't have a client like this, Richie, you know that," Martin says. Richie hangs his head, putting it right between his knees, willing himself to keep calm. "Sorry. I'll have Tonya contact you about terminating your contract."

"Who's on the phone?" Eddie asks. Richie's hands are shaking as he clutches the phone to his ear. "Richie?"

"It's Marty," Richie says. "Martin, it's Martin."

"What's he want?" Eddie asks. Richie feels the sofa cushions shift as Eddie sits down beside him.

"To drop me as a client," Richie says lowly. Eddie hears him anyways.

"Give me the phone," Eddie says. Richie does as he's told before curling up around the trash can with both hands again. "Hello?"

Richie can't hear whatever Martin says on the other end, but Eddie laughs once, sharp and angry, before he stands again, pacing away.

"I don't know what the fuck you think you’re doing, but if you're— Do  _ not  _ fucking interrupt me," Eddie snaps, heated. "If you're dropping him as a client because he's— Oh, you have  _ plenty  _ of pregnant clients who are cis women, don't give me that bullshit. This is fucking discrimination—  _ Don't you fucking—" _

Eddie's voice trails away as he paces down the hallway. Richie listens to it quiet to a hum as he gets to the end of the hall; he takes advantage of the abrupt silence again to see if other people have connected the dots. He snatches his laptop off the coffee table and boots it up, hunched over like a gargoyle as he logs into Twitter and clicks his mentions.

It's  _ all  _ Tweets with the same three pictures attached. All he can read are the comments people are making about him. They've already figured it out. Some random kid whose name is only vaguely familiar from grade school has apparently Tweeted his confirmation that Richie is trans. Everyone's figured out that he's trans and they're all just slinging medical bullshit and misinformation back and forth. Speculating on his pregnancy. Making comments about Eddie. Talking about how he looks beautiful pregnant and using the wrong pronouns. Comparing him to cis women. Comparing him to movie monsters. Comparing him to a science experiment. Calling him a freak.

With trembling hands he sets the laptop back on the coffee table and drops his head back into his palms. He rocks a little bit, his head pounding, his stomach turning; in the next beat, he pulls the trash can back up to his face and vomits again, barely able to catch his breath.

Eddie's quick footsteps come thudding back down the hall before one hand is in Richie's hair, pulling it away from his face. Richie's throat catches on a sob.

"Hey, shh," Eddie says. He turns away, voice slightly distant when he says, "I am calling our lawyer and you can go fuck yourself, I'm done arguing this with you. You're an ignorant bigot and a son of a bitch, go fuck yourself, go  _ fuck yourself—" _

"Eddie," Richie manages to say again, feeling choked and terrified. Eddie hangs up the phone without ending the call properly, pulling Richie into his arms again. Richie just goes, curling up silently in his lap, face burning, eyes prickling. Eddie rubs his back slow, slower; his other hand gently cards through his hair.

"I got you," Eddie tells him. There's a beat of quiet before he says, "Richie, were you reading these?"

Richie nods into his lap. Eddie shifts forward; Richie hears the laptop snap closed. "I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault," Eddie tells him. "It's not your fault, you haven't done anything wrong, it's not your fault."

Richie feels like his head is falling apart in his hands. He buries it deeper in Eddie's lap and sobs, just desperately repeating, "I can't do this, Eddie, I can't do this, I can't do this, I can't—"

"Shh, shh, shh," Eddie shushes him, wrapping around him. Richie just clings to him tightly, shaking. "It's going to be okay. Have you talked to Carla?" Richie shakes his head. "Okay, let's call Carla. She's going to help."

Richie nods. He can feel Eddie stretching to get his phone out of his pocket without totally dislodging Richie from his lap. He calls Richie's PR rep and is only on the phone for two seconds before he says, "Yes, he's right here, you can talk to him."

Richie takes the phone when it's passed off to him. "Hey, Carla."

"Everything is going to be okay," she says immediately. "Stop checking your social media, I'm going to block people and mute select words and phrases before you go back on. I'm going to draft a statement for you, okay?"

"Martin dropped me," Richie tells her. "And we haven't told anyone about the baby yet. Or the trans thing except my friends. And I think I have to take some time off."

"How much time do you need?" Carla asks. Richie makes a noncommittal sound.

"At least a year," Eddie answers for him, loud enough to be heard. Richie leans into him again, feeling goosebumps ripple across his skin at the concept of not working for a  _ year.  _ At  _ least.  _ No involvement in projects, no developing ideas, no writing, no shows, no tours, no open mics. No jack fucking  _ shit,  _ because no matter where he goes, somebody's going to give him shit and he's going to have a big neon sign over his head that says  _ freak  _ and there's nothing he can do about it.

"Okay, a year is fine," Carla says. "I'll keep you on video interviews, doing calls from home. Nothing but good news and your name stays relevant. What else?"

"Uhh," Richie says, then stops. "I literally have no idea. I went to get t-shirts and now everybody knows I'm trans and they're calling me a mom and I can't deal with it."

"Deep breaths," Carla tells him. Richie can't manage one. "Everything is going to be okay. Richie, people are surprised, and some people are bad, but most people are really excited for you."

"All I saw was bad comments," Richie says.

"All you  _ ever  _ see are the bad comments," Eddie reminds him, still rubbing his back. "People love you."

"Doesn't feel like it now," Richie mumbles into Eddie's lap.

"Hey, you guys are having a baby," Carla says. "Focus on that. Has anyone said congratulations to you yet? Because  _ congratulations!" _

Richie huffs a wet laugh, sitting upright and leaning into Eddie's side. Eddie just puts his arm around him and keeps rubbing his shoulder. "Thanks. It's feeling like kind of a mess right now."

"This, too, shall pass," Carla says, faux-sagely. "Now, do you want to make a statement, or should I do it for you?"

Richie looks down at his laptop. After a beat, he leans forward and opens it again, clacking in his password and navigating back to Twitter. Without hesitating so he can't chicken out, he types,  _ "afab acab and pregnant as hell, direct all questions straight to 🚽"  _ and then leans back against Eddie again.

"Done," he says. Eddie leans over to read the Tweet; Richie can hear Carla on the other end mumbling to herself as she reads it.

"Oh, Jesus," Eddie mutters. Carla huffs a half-laugh.

"Well, it's certainly you," Carla comments. "I'll handle the rest of it, being that I'm the toilet you so eloquently put out there for questions. Just remember, you're validating your bad thoughts and not your good ones again. People like you. I have no reason to lie, I see it all. There are shitheads who are gonna give you trouble, but it's all just negative bullshit and there's no weight to any of it. People know who you are so they want to make edgy comments. They're not a part of your life and, God willing, they never will be."

"Thanks, Carla," Richie says, smiling a little to himself.

"I'll call you tomorrow," Eddie says near the mouthpiece. Richie leans closer to him, turns his face into Eddie's throat.

"Sounds good, Eddie," Carla says. "Stay inside for today. Everything will be okay. Especially if you name the baby after me."

"Okay, bye, Carla," Richie tells her. Eddie clicks to hang up the phone.

"She's right, you know," Eddie says. Richie sighs, dropping his phone on the couch and burrowing into Eddie's side. Eddie runs his hand over his stomach, lightly stroking Richie's skin as he hitches up his shirt to get underneath it. He lets his palm settle on the slight noticeable curve of his belly; after a moment, his fingers dig in, just a little bit. He kisses the top of Richie's head.

"About what?" Richie asks.

"About it all being bullshit," Eddie says. "I said it before, I'll say it again. They don't know you, they don't understand what it's like." Eddie strokes his face with his other hand, tipping his head up so he can kiss him on the forehead. "They're fucking stupid as shit and they'll be the first people I kill when I finally freak out and snap. I swear. Nobody gets to say that shit about you and get away with it like it's fucking okay. If I had my way, I'd—"

"Eds," Richie cuts him off, his hands starting to shake again. Eddie releases his face and lets it fall, digging his nose into Richie's hair. He softly strokes his belly, his hand moving so slowly he's barely going a centimeter at a time.

"Sorry," Eddie says. Richie shakes his head. "Anyone who talks shit about you, direct them to me. I'll deal with it."

"The Kaspbrak code," Richie comments, smiling. "Beat the crap out of anyone looking at me sideways."

"Hey, if I didn't, they'd've beaten the  _ crap  _ outta you," Eddie argues. "You made it through middle school because of me, you fucking troublemaker."

"Yeah,  _ I'm _ the troublemaker," Richie says. After a moment, he sighs. "I guess I am."

"Stop," Eddie says. "This is fucking hard to deal with. Shitting on yourself is just gonna make it worse."

"Would you rather me shit on you?" Richie asks. "Is that a fun fancy new kink for you?"

"What the fuck is fancy about— No, what?" Eddie kisses the top of Richie's head again, hand tightening on his belly, and he says, "You're being incredibly brave, Richie. Don't undermine that."

"It was that or convince everyone I'm just gaining weight," Richie jokes. Eddie laughs, but Richie knows it's a pity laugh. That's more sobering than anything; Eddie is usually his best audience. "I don't know, Eds, I'm just tired. I'm  _ tired,  _ man. Martin's been on my ass about canceling shows but I can't keep anything down and I look like shit, and— Well, now I don't have to deal with that, because he fucking dropped me as a client and now I  _ don't  _ have a manager,  _ just  _ in time for me to drop off the face of the Earth like some— some sixteen-year-old in 1950s Kansas who has to go live with her  _ aunt  _ for a year in fucking  _ Vermont  _ and everybody  _ knows  _ she's having a baby, and everybody knows  _ I'm _ having a baby, now, Eddie, fuck.  _ Fuck—" _

"Rich, it's okay—" Eddie tries, but Richie steamrolls right over him.

"—And Carla was good just now but she's been stressed about me taking time off, too, and now I'm asking for a year, fuck, I'm _ fucked,  _ and I'm—" Richie's tirade catches on a sob he wasn't expecting to tear out of him the way it does. He just keeps staring straight ahead, feeling the tears streaming down his face. For a moment, he catches his breath and manages to say, "Eddie, the way they're all talking about me, I'm just— I'm so tired. I'm so  _ tired.  _ I've heard it all and I've seen it all and now it's all going to be directed  _ at  _ me and all I wanted to do was have a baby and now— Now I don't know who I—"

"Hey, whoa,  _ no,"  _ Eddie cuts him off. He sits up properly and makes Richie do it, too, right beside him there on the couch. He cups Richie's face in his hands and looks him dead in the eyes, holding him still so he can't look away. "You are Richie fucking Tozier. Richie fucking Kaspbrak-Tozier, sorry. You are my husband. You are going to be a father,  _ we  _ are going to be fathers together. You are a gay man and you're having a baby and the only problem they have is that they're too fucking regressed to understand. They have  _ nothing  _ to do with you, or with us, or with our lives, or with our baby, Richie.  _ Nothing.  _ They're nothing to us and you and the baby are  _ everything  _ to me, do you hear me?"

"Yeah, I hear you, Eds," Richie says.

"I can't hear you," Eddie tells him. Richie laughs, wiping at his face with the backs of his wrists.

"Yes, I hear you," Richie repeats, louder this time. Eddie kisses his temple, then the top of his head again.

"Good," he says. Richie's phone lights up again with a call from an unknown number. Before Richie can do anything about it, Eddie's grabbing it and flipping it over, setting it on the floor screen-down.

"Thanks," Richie says. "I'm fucking exhausted, Eddie."

"I know," Eddie tells him. "Close your eyes. Carla's dealing with everything, we'll call the Losers later and explain. There's no reason for you to feel guilty, or— or mad at yourself, or anything like that. You can be  _ mad—  _ Hell,  _ I'm  _ fucking mad—"

_ "Eds,"  _ Richie interrupts, laughing this time. Eddie turns his face into Richie's hair again. His hand starts slowly stroking Richie's little tummy again.

"Close your eyes," Eddie insists again. Richie nods, settling into Eddie's lap, wriggling until he's comfortable enough to sleep. He yawns, turning his face into Eddie's warm chest with a deflating sigh. "You know you're going into your second trimester now? The chances of having a miscarriage now are really low." His fingertips tap over the crest of Richie's belly. Softly, he says, "They've got teeth, fingers, toes. More organs. They're really looking like a person now. And to accommodate them, your uterus is expanding up and out, and should be about— here." Eddie's fingers probe the slight bulge between Richie's hips; Richie can feel him pushing into something inside of him. "There it is. That's our baby."

Richie smiles, just a little bit. He's more relaxed now, tipping on the edge of sleep. His brain is humming, but his body's so exhausted it's dragging him, weighing him down. He yawns again.

"You've got to take your vitamin today still," Eddie comments softly. "And at least nine more glasses of water." Richie's nose scrunches up involuntarily, and Eddie laughs, stroking his face for a moment. "Don't forget you've got another appointment in two days. They're mostly checking weight, blood pressure, protein, sugar, you know, but they're  _ also  _ going to listen for our baby's heartbeat, which  _ should _ be steady by now."

"If I'm doing everything right," Richie says.

"And you are." Eddie kisses his hair again. "And if something did happen, it wouldn't be your fault. Sometimes there are medical— medical things that happen and we have no control over them."

"Ahh," Richie says, "I forgot, the  _ anti-  _ Kaspbrak code—"

"Shut up, shut it," Eddie stops him. "I'm growing, fuck you."

"Fuck  _ you,"  _ Richie murmurs drowsily. "Tell me more about our baby."

Eddie's quiet for a moment. Richie assumes he's just thinking of some fun fact to tell him until Eddie says, "I hope they look like you."

Richie scoffs. "Bullshit, I hope they look like  _ you." _

"Agree to disagree," Eddie says. He hums a little, letting his cheek rest against the crown of Richie's head. His hand keeps up a slow, even circle on his belly, right over the baby. "You know you can tell me anything."

"Mm." Richie nods, too exhausted to do much more than that.

"And you can talk to me about anything," Eddie continues. "I'm not going to judge you, bub. Tell me whenever you're feeling bad, no matter what, okay? Don't bottle that shit up, it's not good for you."

"Pot, kettle," Richie mumbles.

"I don't bottle shit up, I speak my mind," Eddie insists. His hand slows even more, gentleness. "Sleep, Rich. Take a nap. I'll wake you up soon."

"Okay," Richie says. "I'm sorry." Again.

"Nope," Eddie replies. Again. "Not a chance, stop apologizing.  _ Sleep." _ Again, again, again.

**Author's Note:**

> You can (and should!) come chat with me on Twitter at [@nicolelianesolo](https://twitter.com/nicolelianesolo) and/or on Tumblr at [andillwriteyouatragedy](http://andillwriteyouatragedy.tumblr.com/).


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